


Tiniest Trace of Warmth

by esama



Series: Tiniest Trace [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, PWP without Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 22:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9094099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: Basically the PWP follow up to Tiniest Trace of Hope but it’s not actually PWP





	

**Author's Note:**

> unbetaed

London has different sounds compared to New York. It's the little things – the cobble stone, the way building block some sounds but not others. The apartment – flat – is new too, different – the stone is different, the feel of it is different. It's what called a terraced house, where Mr. Scamander has rented the upper floor flat – and there is an apartment below and houses left and right. Sometimes it muffles everything, sometimes it doesn't. Overall, it's just different.

The place smells different too. Subconsciously Credence thinks he's looking for the scent of ink and paper, but all it really smells is… old wood and older stone, and the weird smells left behind by previous tenants – cigarette smoke and something that once probably burned in the kitchen. There's a fireplace that apparently doesn't work, yet – Mr. Scamander is going to get it hooked up, soon, whatever that means.

Credence thinks he will eventually get used to it – it's not really bad, and already Mr. Scamander has gotten rid of lot of the weird sounds and smells, and even cleared away the bits of mould in the bathroom. The landlord absolutely adores him for that – and so does Chastity, who refused to bathe there before the spots were cleared up.

Right now, though, Credence can't sleep. It's Friday, he thinks, and he's now startled in his bed trice over a noise coming from outside – a automobile once, burst of uproarious laughter and strange noise he thinks might have something to do with the piping. The house creaks like, well, an old house.

The church used to creak too, but… it sounded different. There's unknown weight to the sounds here, like the sheer age of London itself is pressing down on the houses.

Rubbing his eyes, Credence gets up from his bed, half wishing he could go back to the suitcase – knowing he could, anytime he wanted to. It had been strange and even after eight days spend there he had never gotten quite used to it – but at least it was more familiar than this place.

The suitcase would be Mr. Scamander's room, though – and as much as Credence wants to go back, he… doesn't. Here, in this strange new and yet so old house… he could walk out anytime. He even has a key to the front door – he could just walk away. He couldn't do that with the suitcase.

So instead, he heads for the kitchen. It sits in the middle of the apartment, between Mr. Scamander's room and the bathroom on one side and living room on the other. There's barely enough room there for a small dining table for four between the cabinets and stove and the rest – very different from the dining room in the suitcase. Somehow, the unnatural place had never been anything but _spacious_.

Another thing to get used to.

"Credence?" a voice asks with surprise and Credence finds Mr. Scamander coming out of the bathroom. It's then he noticed the scattered notebooks and papers and writing utensils on the dining table – Mr Scamander's writing, spilling over all the available surfaces once more.

"Can't sleep?" the man asks.

"I wanted a glass of water," Credence says, embarrassed.

"Hm. How about a cup of tea instead?" the wizard asks and takes out his wand, the tip tracing the air gently. As Credence watched, a kettle detaches itself from the hook it usually hangs and dips down to catch water from a suddenly running tap, before settling over the stove.

Credence blinks and looks at the man. Somehow, what had before seem so fantastical, so supernatural… now seems a little absurd "You… could've just walked over and done that by hand," he says slowly.

 Mr. Scamander smiles, a little bit mischievous, and lowers his eyes. "I suppose could have," he agrees and puts his wand away. "You're getting more used to magic," he comments, sounding pleased.

Credence stares at him with surprise and then looks at the kettle by the stove. "Have you been doing it on purpose?" he then asks. "All the little bits of magic, making things float and whatnot?"

"Maybe," the wizard says walks over. He takes out a pair of tea cups – by hand – along with saucers and spoons, setting them down. "You will never get accustomed to it if I shy away from it – and more at ease you are with it the better. You're not so anxious anymore."

"… I guess not," Credence murmurs. It is hard to find something so incredible and so fantastical when it keeps on happening daily basis, becoming part of the every day norm. "I don't think I will ever get completely used to it."

"I reckon not," Mr. Scamander agrees easily, reaching for the tin of tea. He shakes it idly. "I hadn't even thought about it – should I get you coffee?" he then asks. "You are Americans after all. I don't really care much for it myself so I didn't bother to get any, but if you'd like…"

"Tea is fine," Credence murmurs, and smiles a little at this strange, domestic concern. First magic and then suddenly coffee. Mr. Scamander's mind much be a wonderfully bizarre place. "We didn't drink much coffee before – Mother… didn't care for it."

It's like a password, or a warning bell. Maybe it's the tone, or the word, who knows, but Mr. Scamander almost automatically reaches for him, arm held out in open invitation.

And Credence goes.

It's easy now, to fit himself under the man's arm, tucking himself to his side. It's stranger even than magic, this place where he seems to have an open welcome to – it's warm and firm and always so welcoming. Mr. Scamander hums in quiet satisfaction and runs a palm down Credence's back, wide and warm and firm.

He's not so careful anymore. Mr. Scamander was hesitant at first, brushing gently with his fingertips or stroking his palm oh so lightly over Credence's back, barely there at all – now he presses down slightly, firm enough to make Credence feel it.

Credence leans against him and watches how the man prepares the tea pot, measuring the leaves and then snatching the kettle off the stove just short of boiling – to keep it from whistling. Mr. Scamander shifts his footing before pouring the tea, and Credence leans his cheek against his shoulder. It's a ritual, he thinks, but not magic.

"And now we let it steep a little," Mr. Scamander says with a slight smile and looks down at him. Credence hums in affirmative and closes his eyes – maybe that way he doesn't have to move yet. The wizard hums in answer amusedly and his hand strokes down, and up again.

Usually, though, Credence isn't wearing a flimsy pyjama top and when Mr. Scamander's hand pulls up, it takes the cloth with it – and then his hand is under the fabric… and against the bare skin of the small of Credence's back.

Credence inhales sharply and stills, his eyes flying open. Mr. Scamander always runs hot – he's never not warm, and it's always obvious even through clothing. Against Credence's usually chilly skin, his touch feels like a brand, and Credence is caught under it.

Mr. Scamander goes still too and for a moment it looks – and feels – like he's going to stop and pull his hand away. But he's watching – this time, he's paying attention, staring at Credence's face. Credence feels almost see through under his searching gaze.

Then Mr. Scamander presses his palm flat against Credence's bare skin and slowly traces it upwards, under the cloth, pulling it up.

The captured breath Credence had been holding escapes and he arches into the hot touch. He feels Mr. Scamander spreading out his fingers over his ribs, thumb pressed against the knobs of his spine and he knows the man must feel the scar tissue there, but he doesn't care.

The man inhales slowly, purposefully, leaning down a little, almost nuzzling him. It's nothing that hasn't happened before but it feels like they're closer now – they _are_ closer now, Credence is all but plastered against the man and oh – there's another hand on his bare skin, against his waist. It's pulling him closer.

Credence doesn't know much about things like this – but this is, has to be, more than compassion and kindness.

"Credence," Mr. Scamander breathes, and he sounds almost scared.

"Please," comes out of Credence's mouth before he can stop himself and the wizard inhales shakily. Credence turns his head into him and then Mr. Scamander's nose brushes against his cheek and he is nuzzling him – and it feels nothing like before.

Oh, he hadn't though of this before, maybe he hadn't dared to it in light of what happened, but now that they're here he wants it desperately. Mr. Scamander's fingers trace up his skin slowly, tenderly, Credence's pyjama top giving away and revealing his back to the shockingly cool air of the kitchen.

It's then, with the top bunching up under his arms, that Credence realises he's just standing there like an idiot, not doing anything. His hands are just hanging at his side – worse yet he's squeezing his hands into fists and he knows, abstractly, that it's because he's never been _allowed_ to and –

He's allowed to now, he has to be.

His hands tremble when he lifts them and finally, finally, touches Mr. Scamander's face. The man inhales sharply and his lips fall open and with shivering wonder Credence stares, tracing his fingers over the man's cheekbones, the almost artful hollows of his cheek. Hs face is even hotter than his hands. He's _blushing_.

Credence's lips fall open in wonder. Did he do that? _Is_  he doing that?

"Mr. Scamander?" Credence asks breathlessly.

The man's fingers twitch on his back, a sweet reminder of that they're doing, and he lets out a shaky laugh. "Oh, I do think you – you really should," he struggles to say, his voice shaking and breathy and of all the terrible things Credence fears, none slip from his lips and instead he says, "you should call me Newt."

Credence swallow, licking his suddenly parched lips and he can't think over the pounding of his heart and the overwhelming, joyous realisation that _he can have this_. He's not being just allowed to, this isn't a gracious gift he's being granted, it isn't something that he is only begrudgingly being presented with. No.

He can just reach out and _have this_.

"Newt," Credence murmurs in wonder.

The man swallows and closes his eyes for a moment and the knowledge that he's as shaky as Credence is, is heady and breathtaking. But then Mr. Scamander – _Newt_ – does something gorgeous with his hands and oh, maybe it's just Credence after all.

His hands shift to the sides of Credence's waist and trace upwards, slowly, torturously, pushing the shirt up until Credence can feel the man's waist against his bare stomach, until more of his upper body is bared than covered.

"Can I –?" Mr. Scamander asks and Credence almost scratches him in the hurry to get enough of the pyjama top buttons open for it to be taken off – and then, it is, it just slides up and over his shoulders and off entirely. Credence stands, half naked and shivering and so excited all of sudden, and Mr – Newt's hands are on his skin again.

And it's like the man's accepted his unspoken welcome there as well, because there is nothing shy about his touch. It's wondering and careful but never shy, stopping only to explore. And Credence knows it's the scars he's exploring but he can't bring himself to care. The man's touching him and it's most certainly not out of any sort of obligation.

"Oh," Newt murmurs, his thumbs going slowly over the shapes of his ribs, his palms warm and wide on each side of his ribcage.

Credence shakes his head at the hint of sadness. "Don't," he murmurs and takes the man's face between his hands again, just because its there and he can and it's warm. "I don't want –"

"I know, it's just that – Credence…" Newt says shakily but the frown doesn't quite go away.

So, Credence leans in.

The heat of Newt's skin has nothing on the warmth of his lips, nothing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> There, now it's finished.


End file.
